


The Kindness of Strangers

by nothingeverlost



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Tournament (2009)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:59:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a woman in the hay.  A real one, curled up in the corner of the crudely built stable, covered with a coat.</p><p>The one where Joseph MacAvoy finds a woman in the nativity scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindness of Strangers

Mary, the holy virgin mother of the Christ child, was missing. The baby was not in the creche either, but it was a week until Christmas and the small wax figure was tucked away safe in the storage room of the church next to the wise men. For now the nativity scene was meant to be Mary and Joseph, an empty manger and a handful of animals kneeling in the straw. As he passed by the church Joseph could only see the poor carpenter and the animals.

The grass in front of the church was slick, not a help with his already less than sure step. He’d only had two drinks; he was trying to be a better man, but he was weak. He hadn’t been able to walk past the pub, but he had managed to walk out on his own. He couldn’t lie to himself enough to call that progress.

Joseph walked slowly, hoping that no one had stolen the statue. He might be able to scrape up the funds for a new statue, but it wouldn’t get here for this season. The life sized nativity drew people to the church every December, and they were such a small congregation that they needed the additional donations from visitors. Fortunately as he got closer he could see that Mary wasn’t gone, only fallen on her side and half buried in the hay.

“Taking a nap?” he joked as he reached down to pick up the statue.

Mary wasn’t alone. There was a woman in the hay. A real one, curled up in the corner of the crudely built stable, covered with a coat. It was dim enough in the shadows that Joseph couldn’t tell much else about her, but she shivered. Shivering was bad but at least it meant that the woman was alive. 

“Hello?” The fallen statue didn’t matter at all now. He pushed it aside to give himself more room. He wondered if he dared to touch her.

“Miss?” When she didn’t seem to respond he knew that he had to do something. There seemed to be two options, to call for help or try to help her himself. he wasn’t sure he could, but he knew there had to be a reason she was sleeping in front of a church, not in a bed. He didn’t know if police would be a help or harmful to her, so it seemed as if there was only one thing to do. He shook her lightly. “You need to wake up. It’s too cold out here to sleep.”

“Just a little longer. Please. I’m so tired.” Her voice was muffled by the coat, but not even that stopped the puff of steam that rose from her breath hitting the cold air.

“I can find you someplace safe to sleep. Please come with me.” He touched her arm again, but this time she jolted and rolled away, farther into the shadows. She was awake.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” She stood and tried to circle around him, but there wasn’t an easy way to get past the manger and the fake animals. The woman was petite, almost frail looking. “I didn’t mean to bother anyone.”

“You’re not a bother. You can trust me, I just want to help you. I’m a priest.” He pulled open his coat, revealing his black shirt and white collar. “This is my church. I can help you.”

“I can’t ask anyone for help, Father.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t make it to her eyes. She looked sad.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Please, at least come in for something hot to drink. I live right there.” He gestured in the general direction of his home, just across from the church. “I’ll worry if I don’t at least see that you’re warmed up.”

The woman looked down before nodding. “Just for a little bit.”

“Thank you.” Joseph looked over his shoulder twice as they crossed the street, just to make sure she was still behind him. He was relieved when she stepped into his home without him doing anything more than holding open the door. It was a simple village rectory, but at least it was warm. He even had something to eat, if he could convince her to sit down with him.

II

She could run. Belle looked around at the street and knew that she could run and find a place to hide again. The man that had woken her up was a priest; he wouldn’t try to grab her. He might not even follow. It might be a better idea, to run before the questions started.

The lure of being warm for a little while made it easier to head for the open door than the dark streets.

“I can hang that up for you,” he offered, reaching for her coat. She pulled it more snuggly against herself. She couldn’t let him take it.

“No thank you, Father.” The room they stood in was almost spartan except for the books. One wall was lined with bookcases, there were half a dozen open on the coffee table and more stacked on the arm of the sofa. Belle looked at them hungrily. She had one book in her bag; she hadn’t been able to justify any more than that when she could only take what she could carry.

“It’s MacAvoy. Joseph MacAvoy. Father MacAvoy is what most people call me, but whatever you’re most comfortable with is good. I don’t mind.” He looked perhaps fifty, though that might have been the dark circles under his eyes and too pale skin that spoke of someone as tired as she was. But when he raised his eyebrows and looked at her expectantly he looked so much younger. Almost a boy.

“I can’t tell you my name, Father MacAvoy. I promise you’re not hiding a criminal, but I…”

“No, no, you don’t have to tell me anything. You’re safe here. My home is sanctuary to anyone who needs it. I’m going to go make some tea, alright?” 

Belle nodded, blinking back tears. His kindness made her wish that she could tell him her name, to have someone in the world at least know who she was, but it wasn’t just about her. When he passed through the doorway to the kitchen she allowed herself to sit on the sofa. It was so much softer than the straw had been, or the seat on the bus. The material was worn, almost bare in one spot, and she could tell from the imprint that he sat on the left more often, near the pile of books. She sat on the right and dared to pick up the book that was closest. From the time she was a child she’d been able to lose herself in stories. It would be nice to have a respite, no matter how brief, from her life.

II

“I heated up some soup. I hope you like beans.” Joseph carried a tray with two mugs of tea and two bowls of soup. Mrs. Smites had brought over a loaf of bread the day before and he’d cut two thick pieces of that as well, spread with butter. He’d worried about being in the kitchen too long, but the fact that he hadn’t heard the front door open had reassured him. One glance at the sofa told him the reason why; she was asleep.

Moving as quietly as possible, Joseph backed out of the room with the tray. He set it on the kitchen table before heading upstairs for the thickest blanket he could find, and decided that two blankets would be better. The quilt from the end of his bed had to be softer than the coat she had draped over herself. After debating the merits of her comfort versus the risk of waking her, he decided that if he couldn’t give her tea at least he could warm her up. He lifted the coat from the collar, careful not to touch her, and pulled it back.

The coat fell from his hands as he stared at her rounded stomach. She was pregnant.

II

Belle woke in dusky darkness, which was not unusual. She did not immediately know where she was, but after the last week that wasn’t strange either. She was warm and comfortable, and that was the odd part. She’d been trying to find the bus stop, but her feet had been so heavy and she just needed to rest for a few minutes. The church’s nativity scene had offered her shelter from the wind at least, if not the cold.

The priest had found her and brought her home. She was only going to stay long enough to warm up, but the sofa had been soft and only a few words in the book had lulled her to sleep. She didn’t know how much time had passed. Hours, she had to guess, because she felt more rested than she had in days. Long enough that the faint light coming through the window was as likely to be sunrise as it was streetlights. She needed to leave, but to just walk out seemed rude. She should find some paper, at least, and leave a note.

“I was going to make some breakfast. I’m afraid eggs and instant oatmeals are about as far as my culinary talents stretch.” Belle had a hand on the lamp next to the sofa when the voice startled her. “I’m sorry, I was just checking to see if you were awake.”

“You don’t need to do that for me. You let me get warm, Father MacAvoy. That was kind of you but now I really do have to go.” She needed to find the bus stop and continue her journey south. She would be able to lose herself in London. She might even be able to make a life for herself.

“You need something to eat. For you and… and for the babe.” He stumbled over his words, barely looking at her. Embarrassed, perhaps. She didn’t know. Belle’s hands rested on her stomach, still covered in blankets. He’d accidentally found her second greatest fear, that her own exhaustion and poor self care on the run would harm her child. Her daughter.

“Why do you care, Father? We’re strangers to you.” Her father hadn’t cared enough to support her. None of the people she’d thought were friends had helped her. And Killian…

She didn’t want to think about Killian.

“We’re all stranger to each other, when we first meet. Jesus said ‘as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ He wanted us to feed each other, and offer each other our help. I want to help you, if you’ll let me.” He was so earnest, she found it hard to say no, especially when she was hungry. More importantly she needed to take care of her baby.

“Just breakfast,” she agreed.

II

The bus station was deserted. Joseph had managed to convince his guest to at least let him give her a ride after breakfast. She was tightlipped about where she was going, not even telling him the direction she was traveling. He worried about whoever made it so hard for her to trust.

“What about people visiting their families for the holiday?” The woman stared at the sign declaring that the station would open again on the twenty-sixth of December, almost a week away.

“Is that where you’re going? To visit family?” he asked the question on impulse, before it occurs to him that’s it’s probably a bad idea to ask any questions of a woman too scared to even give him her name. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“This is my family.” Gloved hands covered her coat, above her stomach. In the thick coat it was impossible to tell anything. Joseph knew very little about babies, but it seemed to him that there were months before hers would arrive.

“You can stay with me for the week, just until the busses come again. I have a second room. It’s better, isn’t it?” He couldn’t think of an alternative that wasn’t walking or hitchhiking. Both ideas were too full of risks.

“Is there a train station?” Her single dufflebag sat at her feet. She picked it up, looking resigned. She already knew the answer.

“It’s just a week, and you’d be doing me a favor. It’s a hard time of year to be alone. I almost didn’t put up a tree this year, because it’s hard to see the point. A little company for the week would be a kindness to me.” Selfishly, a week of company would give him a reason to stay away from the pub. It would keep him safe, and strong. He was better at being strong for others rather than himself.

“I can’t pay you anything. I have enough money for a ticket, but I need to save that.”

“You can, um…” It took him a moment of stammering but he remembered the attention she seemed to pay attention to his books. “I need help with my books. It’s so hard to find anything. You can help me with that, can’t you? Organizing them?”

“I have to leave the day after Christmas.” She looked over her shoulder at the bus station.

“I’ll give you ride to the station. I promise.” He held his breath until she nodded.

“Just for the week.”

II

His books were a disaster. Belle tried to sort them inside the bookcases, but there was no rhyme or reason. They weren’t sorted by category, title or author. They were, at her best guess, sorted by some mix of the time he’d bought the book or the last time he’d used it. By the second hour she’d decided to take all the books out of the shelves and sort them by the Dewey Decimal System. Not surprisingly there was quite a bit of sorting to do in the two hundreds, more in the two nineties than she would have expected, but the collection was quite diverse. She got lost in a book of Van Gogh paintings for a time, and had trouble putting down an obviously well read copy of Aesop’s fables.

“I’ll make sure you have books, sweetheart. Lot’s of books,” she promised as she added to the three ninety stack. In a few months she would hold her baby for the first time. She didn’t know where they would be or how she would take care of the child, but she knew that they would read together. She could give her child a love of stories, she knew that much.

“I didn’t mean you had to start right away.” The front door opening startled her. It felt as if Father MacAvoy had only been gone an hour, but when Belle looked at the clock she found that it had been three.

“I’m sorry about the mess, I just…”

“No.” he shook his head as he rubbed his hands briskly together. The foolish man had gone out without gloves or a coat. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant that you could have done anything you wanted. You don’t have to work.”

“This is hardly work.” She smiled as she picked up a dog-eared copy of Wheelock’s Latin and tried to smooth the bent cover. She tried not to wonder what was happening to her own library, the one she’d collected since she was a girl. “You have some wonderful books.”

“I started collecting them when I got my first flat, while I was still at Uni. I didn’t get to keep very many things before that; we moved a lot and things were always left behind. But once I was on my own I could keep my things. I might have gone a little overboard.” He waved a hand at the stacks on the floor and every other surface. “But they’re friends once they’ve been read. I can’t get rid of them.”

“When I get done you’ll be able to find them, too. You should always know where your friends are.” Or if you had any. Sometime it was better to know that people weren’t friends.

“There’s more in the bedroom. I should… should I bring them out here?” Belle wondered if he was even aware that he’d picked up a book and was thumbing through the pages. He didn’t seem to be aware of his hands half of the time.

“Why don’t we start with these first?” She didn’t mean for him to take it literally, but somehow she found herself sitting on the floor, arranging the piles around her while Joseph - Father MacAvoy - brought her books. They spent almost three hours, speaking little except through book titles, until it was time to start dinner.

II

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me your name, but would you feel comfortable giving me something to call you? It feels strange not to have anything.” Dinner was sandwiches and soup that had been from a tin. His guest had taken over that part, and somehow the mostly broth soup was thick with fresh vegetables that that been dropped off the day before.

“I’m sorry that I can’t… It’s not about you, I just can’t be myself right now.” When she looked away, biting her lip, Joseph frowned. She was running from someone or something. He wished he could do more than offer her a bed for a few nights. 

“You can be whoever you want to be. I like the person I spent time with today.” It had been quiet, but he liked quiet. He also liked that she’d laughed twice at his bad jokes and that it was seven o’ clock and he’d only thought of getting a drink once.

“When I was little my mom sometimes called me Lacey. She said that I was prettier than a piece of her mama’s Irish lace.” The woman - Lacey - played with the necklace that hung around her neck.

“Your mom’s?” he asked softly.

“It’s the only thing I have left from her. If I have a girl it will be hers someday.”

“You have your memories of her. Boy or girl I bet you’ll tell them stories about their grandmother.” Joseph rarely thought about the idea of children. He’d been a priest almost half of his life, and it was rare times like first communion that he wondered what it would have been like to have a child. He couldn’t help but look at Lacey, though, and wonder what it would be to know that a child would carry your name and learn about your stories. “You’re going to be a good mom.”

“No I’m not.” A moment later Lacey fled from the room. It was the complete silence that had Joseph following her when he wasn’t certain of his welcome. He found Lacey standing next to the tree, staring at the ornaments. They weren’t anything special, mostly round balls and handmade ornaments that had been gifted to him from Sunday School classes.

“Lacey?” he asked softly, not daring to move too closely.

“I don’t even have a place to live, let alone a job to support two people. I have nothing to offer my child, Joseph. Nothing. Maybe my father was right.” She didn’t cry, but he could see the tears in her eyes, lit up in strange colors from the tree’s lights.

“What do you think he was right about?” She had a father. A parent. He wondered why the man wasn’t supporting his daughter when she so obviously needed help.

“Killian, my, uh… the baby’s… he arranged for an adoption. I didn’t know what I was signing; he said they were the papers to renounce his paternal rights. He never wanted her.” Her hands rested on her stomach, moving slowly. Comforting the babe, or perhaps herself. “He said that I didn’t have any choice, that I couldn’t raise a child on my own and we might as well get something from it. My father, he just… agreed.”

“You said that she was yours. I think that shows you made a choice, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else says.” A child belonged with their mother. Joseph knew that there were cases where it wasn’t what was best for the child, or the mother. But he’d watched the way Lacey’s first instinct was to protect her child, her hands going automatically to her stomach. She called the child hers, and had left everything behind if it meant keeping her baby. “I believe in you.”

“I want her.” Joseph wasn’t used to touching people very often. It was strange, when Lacey’s arms wrapped around him and she pressed her cheek to his shirt. Strange, and lovely.

“Joseph and Mary didn’t have a home either, and look how that turned out.” He hugged her back, and didn’t let go until she pulled away.

II

For the second time in three days Belle woke up on the sofa in Joseph MacAvoy’s home. This time his shoulder acted as her pillow. He’d insisted that they both needed something to laugh about, so he’d made popcorn and from his meager DVD collection he’d produced Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Belle didn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so easily. She’d dozed, but not for long; the credits were still rolling.

“I have a question,” Joseph said when she shifted.

“About African swallows?” she asked sleepily. It had started snowing, she noted idly as she glanced out the window.

“About what to watch next. I have Mary Poppins, because we showed it at a youth event at church a few weeks ago. Or I have, and don’t judge me on this, Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“Father MacAvoy, I’m shocked at you.” Belle used her hand to cover a grin.

“I’m sorry to tarnish your image of me, Lacey.” He grinned back at her, offering both of the DVDs.

“It’s Belle,” she dared to say. if she couldn’t trust him then she didn’t know if she’d be able to trust anyone, and that wasn’t the person she wanted to be, not for her child. “My name, it’s Belle.”

“Which one should we watch, Belle?” He held both movies in one hand, but his other hand was resting palm up on his knee. Belle touched her palm to his, and breathed in.

“Let’s go with Mary first.” 

She had five days until Christmas, and while what came after was a question, for the first time in months the present was something that she could trust. She would, for the next few days, allow herself to enjoy the gift.


End file.
